


The Siren Softly Sings

by Strudelmugel



Series: Peace and Love [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fade to black sex, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, Painting, imagine having post-nut clarity and still being an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 17:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelmugel/pseuds/Strudelmugel
Summary: On a family holiday, Alfred's boring trek around an art gallery changes when he comes across a painting of human misery, and a man dedicated to studying it.





	The Siren Softly Sings

**Author's Note:**

> G.A. Densen - Denmark  
Tomas - Lithuania  
Jānis - Latvia
> 
> ...
> 
> This is another fic inspired by a Pogues song, this particular one based on "Wake of the Medusa" and is the first of three Baltic fics that tie in together. They'll be written... eventually. One's already started and the other's in planning stage. In the meantime, I'll probably work on other fics from my Pogues series.  
This fic was inspired by a song inspired by a painting based off a real sinking. The sinking in this fic is fictional, though.  
This one is... well, I can't go spoiling anything, but it's spoopy, enjoy!

[ _ The guests are stood in silence, they stare and drink their wine, _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUwykasKhY)

[ _ On the wall the canvas hangs, frozen there in time, _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUwykasKhY)

[ _ They marvel at the beauty, the horror and despair, _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUwykasKhY)

[ _ At the wake of the Medusa, no one shed a tear, _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUwykasKhY)

[ _ Sit my friends and listen, put your glasses down, _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUwykasKhY)

[ _ Sit my friends and listen to the voices of the drowned. _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUwykasKhY)

* * *

Alfred didn’t know a lot about art, but he could honestly say that was a big painting.

He could go into further detail, say that the painting itself had further detail, that there were a lot of men crammed on that raft, and they all looked rather fragile compared to the massive storm brewing in the background, but as it were, he just took another sip of coffee and tried to look deep in thought, and not completely, utterly bored. 

He glanced around as people slowly filtered in and out, none of whom were his brother. He had no idea where Matthew had wandered off to, but he wasn’t happy about being left in a creepy old gallery with a bunch of old people who looked like they’d keel over and die. They filtered in and out, but he was left alone for the most part.  There was something eerie about the painting itself; maybe the twisted, pained expressions of everyone in it? How realistic they were? How they all seemed to be calling to him.  As he waited for his brother to come collect him, Alfred, shuffled off to the side to let others see the painting, deciding to read the little plaque next to it.

_ Wreck of the Medusa - G.A. Densen _

_ Painted in 1800, this romantic piece depicts the sinking of the Medusa, a Danish merchant vessel run aground in the north Atlantic. After the officers and passengers were shepherded onto lifeboats, the main body of the crew was left to fend for themselves. Though some managed to cling to a makeshift raft, only one man was ever found alive.  _

_ Densen effectively and realistically conveys extreme emotion in his work, capturing the anguish of those doomed, and, for an unknown reason, painting himself into the picture (centre-right). _

Alfred glanced over at the man in question, staring out at him with pleading eyes. He shuddered.

_ This was Densen’s final painting, finished shortly before his disappearance. No one knows what happened to him, and his body was never found. _

Well, that was spooky. 

“Haunting, is it not?”

Alfred jumped at the voice, and wheeled round to find the room empty, save for one assistant, standing in the corner.

“Err, yeah.” He gave a friendly smile, despite the fact that he was shaking and had gotten an actual adrenaline rush from being crept up on. “You know about it? The - err - the painting?”

The assistant nodded. “Of course. I work here.” He took a couple of steps closer, looking down at his hands and giving a melancholy sigh. He seemed nervous, like he didn’t often get the opportunity to talk to people, and that lack of practice made him scared to try. Still, his confidence was growing. Nothing was going to stop him talking about this giant-ass painting. “I have studied the _Wreck of the Medusa_ for years now,” he appeared to be trying his best not to look too excited, but the way his voice cracked and his eyes lit up told another story, “I could tell you everything there is to know about it.”

Alfred had to admire the man’s passion. The only thing he’d been as dedicated to learn was the pokerap.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to learn about the painting, though; everything about it gave him the heebies, and then the jeebies. But he did love seeing people talk about that they were passionate about.  And the guy was cute, too. He was dressed like a librarian in a baggy brown jumper and worn tie. His hair also had a grey tinge to it, as did his skin, but he was handsome. He just needed to get out more. Catch the sun. Maybe Alfred could take him out.

“You know what? I’d love to hear it.”

The man smiled; it made his face less grey.

“Well, for starters, you read it was a Romanticism piece, right?”

“Yeah… what the hell is Romanticism? Doesn’t look very romantic. Not really into drowning dudes. But I am very much into dudes,” he added, hoping the guy would get the point. He didn't know how to say it clearer.

The guy smiled.

“I hear that a lot. Um, the not knowing about Romantic art. Oh, I did not catch your name!”

“Alfred F. Jones. I mean, I legally changed my middle name to Fortnite last year. And before that, the F stood for Franklin, though my brother says it was to pay respects when I was born. But anyway, what about you?”

The guy blinked, probably understanding about 10% of Alfred’s ramble. “I am Tomas Septys. Lovely to meet you.”

“You too, man. So, Romanticism?”

Tomas sat down on the bench in the middle of the room. Alfred joined him, leaving space between them.

“Yes, it is an art movement.” He paused, excited to continue, but scared to bore him with a ramble.

“What kind?” Alfred prompted. He knew nothing about art movements. Tomas made him want to learn more.

“It places emphasis on emotion,” said Tomas, playing with his hands, “particularly, the emotion of the artist. The idea behind that is using your imagination for your work, not really worrying about the rules. And being original.”

Alfred nodded slowly.

“Of course, Densen was using his imagination for this, having not been present when the ship sank.” He stood up, walking over to the painting. “His… his love was on the _Medusa_. There.” He pointed at the man next to Densen, clinging to his shirt. Alfred thought it looked pretty freaking gay, but had the sneaking suspicion many people had insisted it was platonic throughout the years. “Not many people know that, though historians have debated.”

“So you think they were in love?”

“I know they were.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “You know?”

“Densen’s private diaries were recovered recently. Someone had hidden them.” Tomas didn’t take his eyes off the painting. “Eduard Mets never came home. Densen waited months for the news. He hoped, prayed someone had picked him up. Maybe he’d washed ashore, or gotten lost.”

“That… I couldn’t even imagine going through that.” Alfred studied the painting. Densen was wailing, like his soul was silently being torn in half. He could almost hear the screams.

"I think he had to accept it, after a while. That Eduard was not coming back. I have a feeling that, after finishing this painting, he… he walked into the ocean." He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "I mean, that is the legend, but there is always truth at the heart of a legend."

Alfred nodded, then he froze. "Wait, is this a ghost story?"

Tomas smiled. "Does that scare you?"

"Fucking yeah?"

"You can leave if you want. Walk out of the door."

Alfred thought about it. The room was darker than usual. Everyone was gone. No one had come in in a while now. He shivered.

"No, I'll stay."

"Good answer, but I am all out of time. My lunch break is over now. Can you come back tomorrow?"

Alfred looked at him. He was supposed to go look at some old buildings with Matthew. Maybe a museum or something. What the fuck was an "Old Town"?

He could blow it off.

"Yeah, sure. Same time tomorrow." He gave a smile, and left the room.

* * *

_ In the moonlight's ghostly glow, I waken in a dream, _

_ Once more upon that raft I stand, upon a raging sea, _

_ In my ears the moans and screams of the dying ring, _

_ Somewhere in the darkness, the siren softly sings, _

_ Out there in the waves she stands and smiling there she calls, _

_ As the lightning cracks the sky, the wind begins to howl. _

* * *

True to his promise, Alfred was back in front of the painting, and Tomas was waiting for him on the other side of the room.

“Hey, how you been?”

Tomas smiled at him. “Looking forward to seeing you. I did not know if you would be true to your word, I must confess.”

“Hey, man, I said I’d be here. You’re cute and I only got a few days left to see you.” He blushed at that. How would Tomas take it? People assumed he was good at flirting, because he looked like a Chad, but Alfred had no idea what he was doing. He often didn’t.

Tomas looked at his shoes, smiling to himself. “We must make the most of our waning time.”

Alfred glanced at the painting, then back to Tomas. “I guess you wanna talk about it some more?”

Tomas nodded. “You will not, truly, understand the painting, until we talk about the individualism.”

“The what?”

“You need to know the story of the men here. The individual men.”

“You know the names of all the men in the painting?” That was dedication.

“Some. We could not find out about every man. But Eduard and his two friends, Toris Laurinaitis and Jānis Garais,” he pointed them out, "we know about them."

“Toris has your hair,” Alfred noted.

“I get that a lot.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He was a thoughtful man, a Lithuanian sailor who travelled the world, and ended up in Copenhagen at the wrong time. Got work on the _Medusa_ with his friends, trading on the Gold Coast and hoping to come back with… gold, funny enough.”

Alfred nodded.

“No voyage was easy back in those days, but the risk brought reward, and I imagine the three were looking forward to getting a decent pay. Or… maybe not. Maybe promotion, something more stable. I do not know.”

“But the ship sank?”

Tomas nodded. “A few weeks in, a storm hit the North Atlantic and the ship ran aground.” 

“The one in the painting?”

“Yes, the one in the painting.” Tomas looked at the painting. It dominated the room, seemingly growing as Alfred stared. He swore it was moving: clouds fuzzing around the edges, sea rolling ever so slowly. But every time he tried to remember where a wave had been before, he couldn’t. The painting had always been like that.

“The few passengers the ship had were loaded onto boats. And the senior crew. The rich, important people on the ship. There were few lifeboats. Little row boats that would barely survive the storm, but it was better than a doomed ship. The crew, the disposable members… no one particularly cared what happened to them.”

“That’s… wow.” He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, but it still made his stomach sink. “Were they… did they…”

“The three friends, well, they had always stuck together, and they would, no matter what.” Tomas rubbed his shoulder. “What happened next… it shook Europe to its core.”

“What happened?”

“That, my friend, is a story for tomorrow.”

“Are you for real?” Alfred groaned, “did you just IRL clickbait a Goddamn _painting_?”

“I have no idea what you just said, but  _ please _ ?” asked Tomas, “for me?” He smiled sheepishly; Alfred’s protest caught in his throat. “I have to get back to work, but…” He looked at the painting, “their story needs to be told.” His voice cracked.

“I’ll come back. I promise.” Alfred reached over and squeezed his hand. 

“You are so warm,” Tomas commented. “You know, you can meet me after the museum closes. Stay behind… there is a cupboard you can hide in. People sneak in there all the time.” He blushed at that. Deeply. 

“Oh I’ll be there.” Alfred was blushing too. “You’ll find me in there. In the cupboard. In the dark.”

* * *

_ The architects of our doom, around their tables sit, _

_ And in their thrones of power, condemn those they've cast adrift, _

_ Echoes down the city street, their harpies laughter rings, _

_ Waiting for the curtain call, oblivious in the wings. _

* * *

The gallery was silent. Even the security guards had forgotten to come to work, had forgotten to set alarms. They usually did when something was about to happen.

Despite the shattering silence, Tomas made no sound as he walked past his painting. The sun was setting through the dusty windows, gold sinking, to be replaced by grey. He wondered if Alfred had been true to his word; he’d not seen him about the gallery.

He walked on, slowly and deliberately towards their meeting place.

Tomas actually giggled as Alfred dragged him into the cupboard, kissing all over his neck.  “Yo, how many spiders do you think are in here?” he laughed, hands on Tomas’s arms.

“Just ignore them.” He smiled at him, even if Alfred couldn't see it. "It will be okay. Just focus on me. Nothing but me."

"I can do that." Alfred kissed where the thought Tomas's nose would be. He landed on a cheek.

Tomas returned the kiss, tasting the sugar on his lips. "Just for tonight, let me be your world."

* * *

_ The casket is empty, abandon ye all hope, _

_ They ran off with the money, and left us with the rope. _

* * *

Tomas breathed against Alfred’s chest, clinging to the warmth and rush of blood and Alfred’s ragged breathing. It had been lonely, wandering about the gallery; he missed the touch of another person.

“I’m really gonna miss you,” Alfred whispered in his ear, shirt crumpled on the floor, trousers bunched at his knees. Tomas nodded. He let Alfred play with his hair, feeling the man tuck it behind his ears and kiss his forehead. He almost wept at the tenderness.

“Do you have to go?” he whispered back.

“Yeah. My plane’s tomorrow.” He pulled away to plaster his clothes back on him. Tomas sighed and pulled up his trousers; he hadn’t done anything like that in a while.

In a rare moment of spontaneity, Tomas stepped forward and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around Alfred’s waist, squeezing him. He couldn’t let him go.

Alfred stopped buttoning his shirt to hug him back. “I know, babe. Look, how about we go in the gallery, you tell me about the painting, and we come back here and hide away til the morning?”

Tomas smiled. “I’d like that. Come on,” he straightened his jumper, “time to finish my story.”

He took Alfred’s hand and guided him through the darkness, through long corridors with ceilings lost in the gloom, to the room he knew so well. In the feeble moonlight, the painting looked alive. Alfred shivered.

For a long moment, Tomas said nothing. He stared up at the painting, willing himself to go on.

“So, you gonna tell me what happened?” Alfred looked at him, “to these three friends?”

Tomas nodded.

“You gonna tell me why you made me stay behind? This place is creeping me out, man.”

Tomas took his hand. “Are you scared?”

“What? Nah! Of course not! I- yeah, this is pretty scary. I’m not scared, just… uneasy.”

“I see. Fascinating.”

“Tomas, please-”

“So impatient. The three floated on their raft for a week, hoping and praying that someone would find them. They survived on rainwater, taunted by the ocean surrounding them. So refreshing to hear, but would kill them if they drank.” Tomas gave him a sorrowful smile. “No ships came. There was nothing to eat. Not for the first week, at least.”

“Oh, did they get some fish? A seagull?” suggested Alfred. Tomas almost laughed at his optimism.

“Jānis was smaller than the other two. Weaker. He was the first to succumb to his hunger, and on the seventh day, his friends woke up to find his corpse.”

Alfred winced, finding Jānis among the other faces in the painting. He looked so young, barely a man, with a round face and golden curls.

“That must’ve been horrible,” he agreed.

“Then, his friends succumbed to their hunger, in a different way.” Tomas shrugged. “Jānis’s emaciated body hardly counted as fresh meat, but it was a source of food.”

Alfred wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You mean they  _ ate their friend _ ?”

“They did not mean to!”

“How do you not mean to  _ eat  _ someone?”

“There was no other way!”

“Woah, why you getting so emotional about it? I’m not saying I blame them, just that it’s a bit gross.”

“Please,” Tomas looked at him, face lined with fear, “we were starving! There was nothing that could be done for Jānis, but maybe, Eduard and I-”

Alfred looked at him. “Woah, woah, wait, do you think you’re the guy in the painting?”

Tomas grimaced, glancing at the exit. “Can you keep a secret?" Alfred nodded. "I  _ am  _ the guy in the painting. I am Toris.”

“Oh come on, man, you need to get outta the gallery more.”

“I cannot leave this place,” said Tomas, quietly.

“Whatever!” Alfred turned to walk out. He was done with this, with Tomas and his secrets and hiding things, and now he was trying to tell him-

The doors slammed in his face.

Tomas stood behind him, hands out, his mouth strained.

“You may leave,” he whispered, “once I have finished my story.”

Alfred shrank away. He rattled the doorknob, but it was stuck fast. “Let me go!”

“Alfred,” Tomas held his hands up, “I promise, I will set you free the moment I have finished my story.”

Alfred growled and kicked the door, quickly giving up. “Fine! Tell me what happened to you, Ghost Boy!”

“A ghost? Huh…” Tomas scratched at his shoulder, “a restless spirit… yes, I suppose I am.”

Alfred, though nothing terrified him more than the supernatural, took a step forward. Then another, and another. He thought about slamming him against the wall, but didn't want to see what this _restless spirit_ could do. 

And, on a slightly related note, what exactly had he just nut in? Was his jizz actually on the cupboard wall? He could ask about that later, maybe.

“What. Happened,” he growled, speaking slowly, “Tomas, Toris, whoever you are, _tell me what happened_.”

“We were found, a few weeks later,” Tomas took a step back, climbing over the rope barrier and pressing himself against the painting. His own face silently wailed next to him. “Well, I was. As for Eduard…”

“ _ Yes _ ?”

“Bones. Picked clean. And blood caked on my chin. It was obvious to see what happened.” Tomas stared at his friend in the painting.

“They said I was a monster,” he whimpered, “I was hanged for my crimes, tortured for no other reason than disgust. The people who left me on that raft got away with it, but I was killed for trying to survive.” He looked at Alfred. “I am no monster.”

“I mean, dude, I’d count ghosts as monsters,” Alfred shrugged, “and eating people is messed up…”

“You have my word, I slaughtered no one. All I did was outlive them. Do you trust me?”

“What the hell kinda question is that? I mean, you’re a cannibal who’s had my dick in your mouth, so you can’t be all bad, but… man, this is too freaky. I gotta go. Think about stuff.”

He turned to leave. Tomas didn’t move.

“Hey, come on, open the doors!”

Tomas gave a whimper. “Please… please stay. I cannot be alone.”

Alfred paused. This was stupid; either Tomas - Toris - was playing some messed-up joke on him, or he was talking to an actual, real ghost. Either way, every instinct told him not to stick around.

“Fine,” he sighed, “I’ll stay.” Why was he so stupid?

“You will not leave?”

“I- I won’t.”

Toris stepped forward and took his arm. In the shadows, he seemed to shift, shrugging off his stuffy librarian’s outfit. His shirt shimmered in the faint gasps of moonlight, pure white and seemingly floating. His face hollowed, eyes wild, a trapped animal. When Alfred looked at his hand, it was bones held together with skin. Though Toris looked like a zombie, the sight was too pitiful to send him running.

“You will stay with me?”

Alfred gulped. He nodded.

“You, my love, are a fool.”

* * *

Matthew had been looking for his brother, the next morning when he didn’t return home. He knew Alfred had been obsessed with the gallery, taking an interest in another country’s culture for the first time ever. He’d forgone the beach, the club, even the theme park to come back here. It would’ve been a nice surprise, had it not taken over his entire life.

Alfred couldn’t be convinced, and now he was gone. Matthew walked as fast as he could, through the many little rooms with humanity’s history in paintings, past tourists and old people, past security guards who paid him no mind, past-

Matthew stopped. There was no need to rush. 

He looked at the nearest painting, one of a girl and her dog. She was sat on her swing, in the back garden of a cottage. Her dog seemed to be chasing her as she swung, a playful movement to his tail. He liked the lighting in it, but didn’t know much about paintings to comment further.

He moved on.

The place was nice, and he’d happily spend a day here, but he needed to catch his flight later that afternoon. The sun warmed his face as he passed windows twice his height, but the next room he entered - off to the side - was cool and dark.

There was one painting.

It took up most of the wall, a scene of misery stretched out before him. The twisted pain in the faces of the sailors clinging to a raft, spilling into the sea and splashing wildly, reaching out to grab at their comrades.

In the background, a storm raged, destroying what was left of the ship, thrown about like the broken carcass of an insect.

In the foreground, among other terrified sailors, was a man who jolted something in Matthew’s mind. There was something familiar about him. They looked super similar, and Matthew smiled. It was nice to find your doppelganger in a painting.

There was a sense of loss too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

A voice spoke up behind him, so sudden it made him jump.

“Haunting, is it not?”


End file.
